Lost in Paris Elizabeth Thompson (romantic story to read .TXT) 📖

as you say, we should probably keep the original somewhere safe anyway.”

Actually, she’s right. Even though we took photos of each page, we really should have a printed copy at the ready. That way we can keep the original under lock and key until absolutely necessary.

“If we do that, we can mail the package to Dr. Campbell. But I need to make sure he’ll accept a photocopy for the first read.”

“I’d really like to take it to him in person,” Marla insists. “What if it gets lost in the mail?”

Instead of arguing with her, I call Gabriel back and ask about submitting a photocopy.

“I will inquire, though I don’t see why not,” he says. “As long as it is a clean, easy-to-read reproduction. On this pass, he will be looking to see if the prose matches Armand’s style.”

“True,” I say. “But how should we print it? I guess I could buy a printer and ink.”

Gabriel is silent for a moment. Then he says, “Ah! I have an idea. If you drop by my office, I will have my assistant, Ophelia, connect your phone to our copy machine and print it out for you.”

“That sounds like a big job.”

“It should not take long. The copier is state-of-the-art.”

“I’m embarrassed to ask, but what will that cost? The manuscript is more than two hundred pages. I’m not sure I can afford to pay an attorney’s hourly rate for photocopies. Could you direct me to a self-service print shop?”

“Nonsense. We will not charge you. If you come soon, Ophelia will do it while you wait. It should only take fifteen minutes.”

GABRIEL’S OFFICE IS LOCATED on the twenty-second floor of a skyscraper called the Tour Montparnasse. The sleek lines of the building strike a sharp, no-nonsense contrast to the city’s famously ornate old-world architecture. An added bonus: it’s located right at the Montparnasse Bienvenüe Metro stop.

It doesn’t get any easier than that, especially since the weather had turned colder. Marla stays at the apartment to start a pot of chili for our dinner, and I’m relieved for the break. I could use some time away from her.

The elevator opens directly into a reception area, where a woman is sitting behind a mahogany desk. She smiles at me.

“Bonjour. Puis-je vous aider avec quelque chose?”

I ask her if she speaks English and she nods.

“Thank you. I am Hannah Bond. Gabriel Cerny is expecting me.”

“One moment, please. I shall let him know you have arrived.” She picks up the phone, dials, and speaks into the receiver in a low voice.

The reception area is surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windows on three sides. Expensive-looking cordovan leather love seats and chairs are grouped around mahogany coffee tables that complement the main desk. Oil paintings in heavy gold frames adorn the walls. A well-dressed woman is seated on one of the chairs. Her purse is on her lap, and she’s clutching a manila envelope with both hands as if it might fly away if she loosens her grip. We are the only two in the reception area.

“Monsieur Cerny will be right with you,” says the receptionist.

I walk to the closest window and look out at the most incredible view of Paris. What mesmerizes me is the postcard-perfect view of the rooftops—a stunning patchwork of white, silver, and gray—stretching as far as the eye can see.

This is my city now, though I’m still waiting for it to feel real.

In the distance, I spy two of the most recognizable landmarks in the city: the gold-domed roof of Les Invalides and the Eiffel Tower. Across the Seine, on the right bank, the Arc de Triomphe stands tall and proud.

I close my eyes for a moment. When I reopen them, the sun glints off the gilded dome as if Napoleon, who is buried inside, is winking at me to say, This is as real as it gets.

“Hannah? Elllooo, Hannah?”

Gabriel has appeared beside me, looking as handsome as ever in his tailored suit, crisp white shirt, and blue tie. “It is a magnificent view, is it not?”

I didn’t expect him to come fetch me himself.

“It is,” I say. “It rivals the Eiffel Tower.”

“Some would say it is better. You can’t see the Eiffel Tower from the Eiffel Tower, can you?”

We laugh and he holds out his hand. “Your phone, mademoiselle?”

I retrieve it from my bag and hand it to him.

“Thanks so much for doing this, Gabriel.”

“It is my pleasure. Come. You will wait in my office while Ophelia prints the copies. It should not take long.”

“I don’t want to keep you from your work, Gabriel. I’m happy to wait out here.”

“Nonsense. You will be more comfortable with me.”

He turns and walks away and I follow him.

As we make our way down the halls, we are intercepted by a pretty brunette dressed in a tight navy blue pencil skirt and white blouse. Her hair is swept up into a French twist. Her lips, which are painted candy red, curve into a smile as Gabriel says something to her in French and hands off the phone.

Ophelia, I presume. Before Gabriel can introduce her, she disappears obediently down another hallway.

I follow him in the opposite direction. “Here we are.”

He stops in front of a paneled mahogany door and gestures for me to enter first.

His corner office is larger than the whole la Bruyère apartment. It smells of furniture polish and old money. The floors are marble. The decor echoes the cordovan leather and wood of the reception area, but the pieces are antique, not of the matchy-matchy offices-to-go variety. I’m drawn to the window to check out this vantage point.

“Why is your desk arranged so that your back is to the view?”

I turn around and see that Gabriel is standing at a credenza, pouring something that looks like Scotch or cognac from a decanter into two lowball glasses.

He shrugs. “I am so rarely at my desk. When I am, I must concentrate on my work, not the landscape. When I want to enjoy the view, that is when I take